


Warp Frenzy

by Randomosity



Category: End times Vermintide, Warhammer Fantasy
Genre: AU: WFSaltzpyre, And Skaven, Blood, Gore, Heavy Angst, I am so fucking sorry, I’d like to blame tumblr for this, Other, Pain and suffering™️, Warhammer Mutations, Warp Frenzy, just a lot of agony on Saltzpyre’s part, so many fucking skaven, warhammer fantasy - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-26 16:06:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14405676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Randomosity/pseuds/Randomosity
Summary: Life is unfair, and with the End Times upon us, suffering is unavoidable.In some cases, the dark gods overstep the boundary, and offer their gifts to those who neither want nor need them in hopes of turning the tide.





	1. It only takes one

This whole fiasco seemed to start weeks ago with a single rattling gun, Saltzpyre being in the wrong place at the wrong time, caught in the shoulder by a warpstone bullet as everyone dove for cover. He took several more in the chest and stomach before successfully collapsing behind an outcropping of rocks just big enough to defend him from more.

None seemed so defiant in removal as that first one though. After one failed attempt he’d grown aggravatingly reclusive and they’d had to corner the Witch Hunter, which is no easy feat even in the confines of the Red Moon.

Bardin, Lohner, and Kruber had been employed in pinning him to the map table while Olesya dug that one bullet out from where it had been imbedded itself, and the ordeal is hardly something any of them enjoyed. There’d been much kicking and hollering, that they didn’t need to cut it out, that he was fine.

Both Lohner and Olesya strongly disagreed.

All the days following had been hellish for everyone unfortunate enough to be caught alone with him. Victor seemed far more irritable, with a tendency to snap at people he didn’t often get onto. Lohner had been the victim of many recent fits, something that seems uncharacteristic considering the barkeep may be the only one there he truly respects.

For the first time since Kruber had fumbled a bomb and lobbed it straight into a lake early in their partnership, Saltzpyre yelled at him. It became an argument which ended in the threat of an early dismissal that struck a nerve with Kruber, who went as far as to grab the man by the lapels, and showed an impressive amount of restraint by not laying the Witch Hunter out then and there.

They’d been considering leaving him out of the next mission, something they’d all discussed in private several times, the fact that if they could not stand his presence like this then they most definitely wouldn’t in a fight.

That was until Lohner pointed out that he may have a new vendetta with the Skaven after having been handicapped for nearly a week and unable to move his arm. They accepted that as a possibility, and finally settled on bringing him along.

There was always the chance that some good old fashioned Skaven slaughter may cure his sour mood.

They couldn’t have been more wrong.


	2. Taking root

If one listened close enough, over the clashing of steal and the squeals of dying clan rats, they might catch the sound of Saltzpyre’s pleased growls of “Much better.” though that seems to be the least of his strange behavior.

He’s... smiling. Not the usual “Releshing my sadistic glee” smile, but an unfamiliar, dull and dopey grin that seems out of place on his harsh features.

The bellowing of a distant horn signals the arrival of another wave of Skaven slaves and clanrats, Kruber and Saltzpyre ready to take the brunt of them while Bardin and Kerillian carry barrels of blackpowder to the boat docked just a few feet away.

Or at least, Kruber thought they were ready.

The wave is cleared and he looks to his right, expecting to see the Witch Hunter studying the blood spattered surface of his rapier, or nudging the corpse of some twitching Rat-man with the toe of his boot.

Instead he find empty air, as Saltzpyre has apparently collapsed, doubled over by a small pile of Skaven bodies trying to hold his head and chest at the same time.

He kneels beside him, expecting to find a myriad of cuts and gashes. Instead, he’s greeted with a slim hole that seems deep if not wide, wet crimson staring to stain his tunic. It’s a scratch, so pitiful he wouldn’t even call it a real wound of it didn’t appear to be having real affect on the man.

His good eye is glassy and unfocused, rolling in its socket to the point that trying to look at him seems like a challenge.

“Sir?” Markus says softly, listening to Saltzpyre’s quiet grunt of acknowledgement. He glances over the hunters shoulder at Kerillian and calls to her, drawing her attention away from trying to spot the next few barrels they need to retrieve. Saltzpyre has started to rubs his arms and shoulder, mumbling softly to himself.

“Do... do rat-men poison their blades?” He asks as she comes to crouch beside him, she takes Saltzpyre’s face in her hands.

“The Eshin do.” She drawls. “Fer’ High priority targets, mostly.” Saltzpyre continues to mutter absently, eyes drooping tiredly. She pats his cheek lightly, “Look at me, one-eye, focus.”

He fails to comply with this, the gentle rubbing of his arms slowly growing more frantic, spreading to his wrists and throat as he scratches roughly. 

“Burns.” He says very softly, his mumbling finally made clear as he itches at the backs of his hands and the crook of his elbows.

“What?” Kerillian asks releasing his face and tucking her hands under her armpits to warm her freezing fingertips. “What burns?”

“Everything.” Saltzpyre clarifies, eye’s watering as he scrambles to discard his gloves scratching at every inch of exposed flesh he can reach. Kruber grabs his wrists when he starts to break skin, pinning them to his chest in an attempt to keep him from hurting himself. 

Bardin has wandered over in this short period of time, leaning between Kruber and Kerillian to look at the man himself.

“Dwarf, give me your Healing Draught.” The elf hisses. Bardin opens his mouth to argue, but Krubers worried look seems to shut him up before he says anything. The bottle never changes hands, all attention snapping to the bellowing of another horn before he’s even got it off his belt. The threat of another oncoming horde of Skaven takes priority.

He and the others trade worried looks before Bardin clears his throat. “Get’im on the boat, Azumgi, we’ll deal with’em.”

Kruber nods, pulling the Witch Hunter into his arms, abandoning their blades there on the dock to rush the twitching man to the boat. He’s much heavier than he looks, andwith at least six holstered pistols pressed awkwardly into his chest once he gets his arms under him, it’s taking a lot more effort to keep him from clawing his skin off while holding him.

His shaking growing evermore violent, even once he’s sat up against the cabin of the boat he looks bad, a light sheen of sweat coating his forehead as tears well in his eyes.

His good eye is bloodshot, and he’s breathing much too fast, under threat of hyperventilating before anything else can be done. Markus is still trying to get him to calm down and be still when the first truly terrifying noise of the evening stops him dead in his tracks.

A sharp snap, followed by Saltzpyre’s harsh wheeze as he slumps to lay flat on the deck. The second time the sound occurs Markus is greeted with a view of the ribs in Saltzpyre’s chest moving.

For a moment he’d mistaken it for a sharp hitch in his breathing, paired with a noise he can’t yet identify, but as he watches lumps shift and arch beneath his tunic he comes to understand just how wrong he is. Saltzpyre kicks and arches off the deck, the next time something goes crunch it wrenches a mournful wail from the mans throat, muffled through his grit teeth.

He’s turned from clawing at himself to clawing at the wooden boards of the deck below, slamming his palms down into it hard enough to bruise them, whimpers turning to shouts to shrieks.

Theres a loud cracking of bones and popping of joints that’s drowned out by the mans own agonized screams, as every limb begins to shatter and mend in swift repetition.

Kruber finds himself unable to look away as lumps of fat slither beneath his skin, flesh bubbles and melts like putty, pulling away from his face and fingertips as he claws at the decking in desperation. 

He should be doing something, anything but he doesn’t know how to stop... this. He can’t draw his eyes away from the gut-wrenching sight of clean alabaster bone tearing through his fingertips as he scratching at the deck of the ship, leaving smears of blood and splintering marks in the wood.

The loudest snap thus far comes from the mans own jaw and Kruber can see it dislocate, a thin red line running from the mans bottom lip to just above his adams-apple, a line that seems to broaden until it turns from a gash to a bloody gap of rent flesh as Saltzpyre lower jaw splits in two. He watches the mans good eye roll back it’s socket as the convulsions continue, his hoarse howls of agony silenced by the return of his breathless wheezing, ribs still shifting, multiplying, warping in shape and size.

One hand creeps out in Kruber’s direction, scratching at the planks in search of something to grab onto. Someone. Regrettably, he shies away, tucking his legs up to his chest as the man searches blindly for him.

Victor utters a single words amidst his pained whimpering, so quiet and roughly mangled Kruber almost misses it. 

“Please.” 

One simple word, even alone he knows exactly what it means, exactly what he’s just been asked. The mans wheezes turn to choked sobs, chest heaving for air as he awaits a death that won’t come as fast as he’d like it.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers, using the sides of the boat to steady himself as he gets to his feet, “I’m so, so sorry.” He breathes. 

He tears his gaze from the mans convulsing body, as the bones of his fingers peel free of their fleshy casing, as his spine pops and crackles with the addition of every new vertebra. The ripping of cloth and flesh prompts him to run, and he does.

He jumps off the front of the boat to avoid having to step over him, to avoid looking at him. He feels cold drops of sweat running down his back, his hands clammy as he stoops to draw his blade from the ground, the voices of his companions are fuzzy and muffled. 

Saltzpyre isn’t dying as far as he knows, but he is in pain, pain that could be stopped easily. Then he looks down at the executioners blade and feels his arms start to shake.

He could stop his pain right now, he wouldn’t even have to swing it that hard.

He almost drops it, trying to think of how he’d fare with the mans blood on his hands. This is a friend, a brother in arms even if he’s one to adamantly refuse it. He’d be doing a great service in sparing him.

Even if he did, the blood curdling screams of his suffering would haunt his dreams for the rest of his life. 

Bardin’s repeated questions of “Where’s Saltzpyre?” and “Where is he, whas’ happ’ning to Grimgi?” as he joins the fray seem to blend with the background noise of clashing metal and squealing rodents. 

Something Kerillian says does stand out just enough to draw his attention away from his own thoughts.

“That’s... Rat Ogre. Rat Ogre!” 

He just barely hears Bardin shout, “Outta th’way, Azumgi!” before something like a fleshy battering ram meets his chest with enough force to send him hurtling through the air. He’s stopped by the wall of a nearby building, where he swears he can hear the a hard thud of his own skull knocking against its bricks. The noise seems to pair well with the pain of his shoulder being popped out of its socket, spots of black and purple consuming his vision as the world grows quiet.

Unconsciousness, in record time.


	3. Withdrawal

He opens his eyes what he thinks is seconds later, Bardin’s firm grip on shoulders, his ears ringing and his head pounding. “On your feet manling, we need t’go!”

Kruber opens his mouth to ask “Why?” just before looking past the dwarf at a still very alive Rat-Ogre and answering his own question. It takes a moment longer to try and identify the other creature currently clawing at the monsters face, large, sharp teeth sunk in it’s shoulder. 

A thick tail ending in a curved spike lashes angrily and draws his gaze to the rest of some many-limbed monstrosity. Bestial and be-clawed hind legs scrabble for purchase on the Rat-Ogre’s broad chest, leaving shallow scratches in its patchy hide.

It shoulder blades are sharp peaks that disturb the wayward arches of its spine. It’s slim, if round, chest pulled close to the Rat-Orgre’s own by four arms of varying use. Two appear almost human, delicate fingers blending into spearheaded claws, while the two front-most are just as strangely animalistic as the rest of it, holding fast to its thrashing prey and note-ably the dexterity needed to do so effectively. It’s maw splits in three, lower jaw a mess of teeth and drool as it gnashes wildly at every spot in reach. 

Strange fin-like spines protrude in a fan from the back of its head, obscuring ears that appear to have been fused there, and fluttering every time it releases one of those horrible rattling hisses.

Whatever it is, it’s pissed, and thankfully not attacking them. 

Yet.

Other things stand out about it as he stands, using the wall for support and wincing as his other arm comes up to help, even with Bardin still insistently trying to usher him towards to boat.

In particular, the tattered tail of a coat it appears to be trapped in. Saltzpyre’s coat. A clear hindrance to it’s movement, the back of it split open to make room for its shoulders and the arch of its spine. Other scraps of clothing, like the neck of a tunic that’s long since been clawed to shreds, hang in ribbons from its powerful body.

His brain feels sluggish trying to process why that hissing collage of parts is adorned in the Witch Hunters coat, as well as how, even as he stumbles back onto the boat. He glances down at the empty spot where he’d left the man, at bloody claw marks that have been carved deep into the decking, at the splintered dent in the nearest railing.

The mans boots are still there, though they look like they’ve imploded, left in tattered scraps of thick leather on the deck.

He looks back at the snarling creature, at its face as it’s yanked loose and tossed away, the Rat Ogre bellowing another deafening roar. It responds in kind, scrambling to right itself and loosing a loud hiss that almost challenges the other in shock value.

It’s the eyes that draw his attention this time, one misty and dead, the other a cold and pale grey that seems to contrast with the seething heat of its gaze. He’s still standing there as the boat lurches, pulling away from the docks. He leans a hip against the mast, watching it bound back across the rickety boards of the underpass towards the Rat-Ogre. 

When he finally does look away, he finds Bardin sitting against the cabin of the boat, Saltzpyre’s rapier resting across his knees.

“Where’s Kerillian?” He asks softly upon realizing that he and the dwarf are the only two there. To tired and far too confused to put any more strength into his voice.

Bardin gestures towards where they’d been docked a moment before, pulling a flask from somewhere on his hip with a weary look. “Stuck around t’keep an eye on Grimgi.”


	4. Aftermath

She watches the two fight, bow drawn and arrows ready, though she doubts she’ll need to fire one. Saltzpyre is smaller and more vicious than the Rat-Ogre can hope to cope with, with enough arms and teeth to deal twice it’s damage in a few scratches.

He still yowls when he’s bitten and swiped at, clear signs of pain, but she hasn’t seen it do anything more than double his zeal. 

The beast fall’s with a final grunt as Saltzpyre comes down on it, scraping every shred of flesh he can gets his claws on, and continuing to tear at it long after its sighed it’s last breath and stilled.

Even when he finally stops, it’s to chase down an unfortunate bird that’s caught his attention. Kerillian follows him at a distance, far enough to keep from becoming a target and close enough to ensure he doesn’t do anything with the potential to kill him.

He starts to slow and shudder a few miles away from the underpass, half limping into an alley to put his weight against a wall, where there comes a great racket of the clicking and cracking of bones.

The tail curls and shrives before brittlely snapping off and withering into dust. The fins about his head begin receding, a much unneeded second set of arms appearing to melt into his chest as his shoulder try to slide back into position before his spine corrects itself.

It’s hard to tell at what point he regains any kind of consciousness, but by the time his jaw has begun to reassemble itself he’s already growling crude swears in a hoarse voice. His rough words are broken by sobs and harsh retching as his stomach attempts to empty its contents.

He’s doing everything in his power to keep from collapsing there in the alley, shakily managing to stay upright with support of the wall for a few short seconds before he knees buckle and he drops to the cobbles.

He catches himself on his hands and knees as bile rises in his throat and cold nips at his exposed skin.

Victor succeeds in hacking up everything he consumed in the last hour, producing a thick puddle of soupy maroon tinged sludge, though he fails to keep from setting a forearm in it as he arches with every retching cough.

Chunks of meat and matted fur make up most of it, a few feathers here and there bode ill for the bird he’d chased earlier.

His entire body is wracked with shudders as he forces himself to sit upright, sliding down the wall as he leans to put his weight against it. Even when he’s not putting weight on any of his limbs they still twitch and quiver on their own, muscles aching with exertion. 

He’s a mess.

His skin looks raw, a thick line of spit dangles from his chin and shimmering streaks of tears stain his cheeks and neck, his breathing harsh and uneven. His clothing hangs in tatters from his frame. His tunic has been shredded to make room for arms he never should’ve had, the legs of his pants have been rent and split in unseemly places, his coat has been torn near perfectly down the back leaving it to pool at his elbows in a pile of dark leather.

He doesn’t seem to have the strength to move or shy away when Kerillian comes to join him at street level, watching her with strained, bloodshot eyes, their whites taking on a rusty reddish color from irritation.

She can’t blame him for being so content to pass out, sliding sideways to lay on the cold cobbles the moment she’s in view, a confirmation that he is relatively safe and can finally allow himself to be claimed by unconsciousness.

She can, however, blame him for the pitiful display and the fact she will have to drag him back to the inn.


End file.
